When the chief opened the door of the cottage, there was no one to be seen within. The fire was burning hot and flameless; a three-footed pot stood half in it; other sign of presence they saw none. As Alister stooped searching for some implement to serve their need, in shot a black cat, jumped over his back, and disappeared. The same instant they heard a groan, and then first discovered the old woman in bed, seemingly very ill. Ian went up to her. "What is the matter with you, Mistress Conal?" he asked, addressing her in English because of the ladies. But in reply she poured out a torrent of Gaelic, which seemed to the girls only grumbling, but was something stronger. Thereupon the chief went and spoke to her, but she was short and sullen with him. He left her to resume his search. "Let alone," she cried. "When that nail leaves her brog, it will be for your heart." Ian sought to soothe her. "She will bring misery on you all!" she insisted. "You have a hammer somewhere, I know!" said Alister, as if he had not heard her. "She shall be finding no help in MY house!" answered the old woman in English. "Very well, Mistress Conal!" returned the chief; "the lady cannot walk home; I shall have to carry her!" "God forbid!" she cried. "Go and fetch a wheelbarrow." "Mistress Conal, there is nothing for it but carry her home in my arms!" "Give me the cursed brog then. I will draw the nail." But the chief would not yield the boot; he went out and searched the hill-side until he found a smooth stone of suitable size, with which and a pair of tongs, he beat down the nail. Christina put on the boot, and they left the place. The chief stayed behind the rest for a moment, but the old woman would not even acknowledge his presence. "What a rude old thing she is! This is how she always treats us!" said Christina. "Have you done anything to offend her?" asked Alister. "Not that we know of. We can't help being lowlanders!" "She no doubt bears you a grudge," said Ian, "for having what once belonged to us. I am sorry she is so unfriendly. It is not a common fault with our people." "Poor old thing! what does it matter!" said Christina. A woman's hate was to her no more than the barking of a dog. They had not gone far, before the nail again asserted itself; it had been but partially subjugated. A consultation was held. It resulted in this, that Mercy and the chief went to fetch another pair of boots, while Ian remained with Christina. They seated themselves on a stone by the roadside. The sun clouded over, a keen wind blew, and Christina shivered. There was nothing for it but go back to the cottage. The key was in the door, Ian turned it, and they went in. Certainly this time no one was there. The old woman so lately groaning on her bed had vanished. Ian made up the fire, and did what he could for his companion's comfort.